


Of Cashmere Scarves and Graveyards

by ThatgirlnamedEleanor



Category: Wooden Overcoats
Genre: Fluff, M/M, graveyards, in an alternate universe where s2e6 never happened, ive barely edited this, mildly cringey writing style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:09:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatgirlnamedEleanor/pseuds/ThatgirlnamedEleanor
Summary: Rudyard is cold. Chapman has tea, and scarves, and an astonishing lack of hatred.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I was trying to write a Chapyard fic, and then procrastinated by starting another one. I then procrastinated that one by starting another, and then that one by starting yet another. This was the last one on that list. It was written on my phone in various stages of sleep deprivation, and whilst the writing occasionally dips into cringe land, it was very relaxing to write so... I hope it's of some value? Oh and before I forget- this is set in a universe where there is absolutely nothing shady about Chapman and the events of "Rudyard Makes a Friend" never happened. Cause cliffhangers hurt.

It was early, relatively speaking, and yet the sun was already beginning to set. The sky was a painting in watercolour, a wash in pale blues, pinks and oranges, brushstrokes in hazy stripes dipping towards the horizon. Rudyard put up his coat collar- not even caring how stupid he looked, because bloody hell it was cold- and settled in his favourite spot: against the large oak tree, between the well weathered gravestones of Elizabeth Marie Palmer and Ulrich Brookheim. The icy chill in the air was already causing his fingers to numb, and he was half regretting coming out at all. That is, until he remembered the wreck that was Funn Funerals, and how little he wished to return there. This place was his and his alone- aside, of course, from the corpses, but he doubted they'd mind.

He'd started coming to the graveyard at the age of ten, and discovered the tree almost immediately. Nearly every day after school, he'd go and sit there for an hour or two- reading, making up stories about the names etched on the stones all around him, occasionally just sitting and staring at the sky, revelling in the peace and quiet. No one knew he went there, not even Antigone. For Rudyard, a child with few personal possessions and even less friends, having even one secret was undeniably precious.

And so it continued to this day. As he sat, staring over at the warmly glowing, precious stone stained windows of the church, he should have known that Chapman would ruin even that.

At first, he was only a shadowy figure meandering between the rows of gravestones. That in itself was unusual- people very rarely came to the graveyard unless there was a funeral on, in Rudyard’s experience. Out of those that would, even fewer upon spotting him would stop to say, cheerily:

“Evening Rudyard! Are you alright? You look cold.”

Internally, Rudyard groaned. “That's because I am cold, Chapman. It is cold. Welcome to winter in Piffling Vale.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Rudyard. Hey, mind if I join you?”

Was there any real point in saying no? Rudyard thought not- it had been proved time and time again that Chapman always got what he wanted. At his unspecific, vague shake of the head, Chapman eagerly hurried over and sat down next to him, taking up half the space that was normally his- which, really, described their entire relationship thus far.

“Crikey, you really are cold! Would you like some tea?”

Reluctant to turn around and see how close he currently was to Chapman, Rudyard kept his gaze fixed steadily on the slowly setting sun. “Even if I did, how exactly do you plan to make tea at 5pm in a graveyard?”

Chapman chuckled. “I have it in a flask, of course! It's Earl Grey; I hope that's okay?” He pulled out of his bag a gleaming copper Thermos. It looked unnecessarily expensive.

“I see a flaw in your great plan, Chapman.”

“Really? What's that?”

“There's only one cup to drink tea from. We can't both have some.”

“That's okay, you can have it. I really don't mind.”

At almost any other time, Rudyard would have told Chapman exactly where he could stick his tea and left, but he was cold, and tired, and to leave would be to effectively surrender his childhood, the one thing left on the island that was truly his, over to the man who already had everything. Besides, the tea did look tempting.

“Are you sure? No wait, never mind, of course you are. Alright then.”

Once he'd gone through the rigmarole of pouring it, Rudyard had to admit that the tea was wonderfully warming. He sipped it in silence; a silence which was, of course, broken by Chapman.

“So, what brings you here, Rudyard?”

“I come here quite often actually. What are you doing here?”

“Just going for a stroll. I find early evening strolls really quite therapeutic.”

Rudyard laughed, sarcastically and bitterly. “Yes, I suppose you would, having… a winter coat, and gloves and… things…”

“Rudyard, are you okay?”

“Of course I am! Just… cold.”

“Oh yeah, me too.”

They both slipped into a mostly comfortable silence; everything they could say unimportant, everything they wanted to unutterable. As time moved onwards, marked only by the number of cups of tea Rudyard had drunk, the last rays of daylight slipped slowly out of view. The night was cloudless, with a chilly breeze that ruined Rudyard’s hair and made Chapman's look pleasantly tousled. If Rudyard listened closely, he could hear the soft rush of crashing waves in the distance.

“Look, Rudyard…” Chapman began hesitantly, “Do you remember STIFT? When you came to that party at mine?”

“When you were incredibly drunk and said that our hating each other was a joke?”

“Yes, well… that's what I'd like to talk about, actually.”

“What is there to talk about? You were drunk, people say things they don't mean when they're drunk, end of story.”

“But I did mean it, Rudyard. I don't hate you.”

“Well, don't I feel special.”

“Look Rudyard, I just… I just wish we could find some way to put aside our differences and work together. We're more similar than you think. Plus, I think, deep down, you don't really hate me. We could accomplish so much!”

“Chapman, if there's one thing you don't need in order to accomplish things, it's me.”

Chapman's reply, when it eventually came, was almost painfully earnest. “That doesn't mean I don't want you.”

And Rudyard knew full well that Chapman didn't mean that in any way even vaguely related to the way his traitorous brain was choosing to interpret it, but he couldn't help it- he blushed. Unable to think of anything to say in reply, he tried to focus only on the waves.

That is, until the peace was shattered by Chapman. Again.

“Oh for goodness sake, this is ridiculous.”

“W- what is?”

“You! I can quite literally feel you shivering! Look- come here…”

Before Rudyard could protest, Chapman’s warm, gloved hands were at either side of his face, swivelling him round so that they were face to face. The warmth vanished as quickly as it had came, however, and the next thing Rudyard knew, Chapman was removing the scarf from around his own neck and looping it around Rudyard’s.

“There, that should keep you warm.”

They were so close- only centimetres separated their faces. Despite what he might say, Rudyard was not immune to Chapman's considerable charms, and he had to admit that up close, he was even more wonderful than from a distance.

“T- thank you, Chapman.”

Chapman smiled. “No problem.” Unable to look away, Rudyard felt, rather than saw, the gloved hand which moved down to squeeze his own.

Chapman pulled away his hand and settled back into his original position, whilst Rudyard turned his attention to the scarf. It was unfairly soft, likely cashmere, and smelt wonderful, musky and deep, probably of some kind of aftershave. It was also warm, very warm.

“I… I don't really hate you, Chapman. If I'm honest.”

He chanced a sideways glance over at Chapman, and was annoyed to see a mildly triumphant smile.

“Oh shut up. I'm still not at ‘let's work together’ level.”

Chapman laughed, but not unkindly. “I hope you will be soon. I have to go now though, must get back to my funeral home.” He stood up, the sudden absence of warmth at Rudyard’s side making him shiver. “Pass me my flask?”

“Oh, right, yes, of course… here.”

Slipping the Thermos into his bag, Chapman turned around to face him. “You know, Rudyard… if you ever fancy grabbing a coffee, you're always welcome at Chapman's.” He seemed, strangely enough, completely sincere.

Rudyard watched him disappear into the night with a fluttering heart and a small smile on his face. Now left alone once more, he looked at the village spread out before him- the lines of graves, the still candescent church windows, the tiny houses with warm golden lights in their windows, all the cobbled streets lit by street lamps winding their way down to the coast. The salt-tinged air was made only more crisp by virtue of the cold weather, and the sounds of the rustling leaves and crashing waves mingled into one soft susurration as Rudyard stared up at the night sky.

He realised, belatedly, that Chapman hadn't asked for his scarf back. Maybe he should go over to Chapman's… only in order to return the scarf, of course.

If he pulled the scarf tighter around his neck as he began his walk back to the village… well, it really was cold.


End file.
